“Me, too,” I say.
“Water for me, please,” Nadia says gamely, pointing at her stomach.
“We’re drinking Cosmopolitans tonight, ladies,” Eva informs us as she serves them to us on a tray. We toast to Nadia’s new baby and to my new fiancé, and Nadia and Agata listen with close attention to the latest updates in my saga. I tell them how Ardishir spared me from having to tell Haroun I would not marry him. And, when I am well into my second drink and on the receiving end of a pedicure by Agata, I tell them the secret I will not tell my sister, that my soon-to-be husband is gay.
“It’s too bad, too, because he’s kind of hot,” Eva tells them.
“There she goes again,” I say, grinning at her. “All bark and no bite.”
“What do you think of that, Agata?” Eva asks. “Tami is going to be a married virgin. Isn’t that pathetic?”
Agata frowns. “A contradiction in-a ze terms.”
“There are plenty of people who have sexless marriages,” Nadia defends me. I smile my thank-you.
“Not you, obviously,” Eva vollies back. Nadia blushes.
“All I wish to say is that it is better to have a good marriage with no sex than a bad marriage with good sex.” Nadia’s blush spreads all the way to her neck. “Or a bad marriage with any sex.”
“Good point,” I tell her.
“No, no, no!” Agata practically yells, sticking her index finger in the air and weaving it in a drunken manner. “You must-a haf a good-e marriage and a good-e zex.”
“Or no marriage and good sex,” Eva says.
“No bite, no bite!” I laugh at her. She has completely lost her ability to make me cringe at her crudeness now that I know it is only an act.
She ignores me and focuses on Agata. “Speaking of which, are you and Josef getting it on?”
“Getting it-a ze on.” Agata grins at the phrase. “Yes, I-ah vould say-a ve are-a getting it-a ze on qvite nizely.”
“You go, girl,” Eva commends her.
Clink, clink. We all turn toward the window. Nadia jumps and cringes away.
“Do you think it’s your husband?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. “He doesn’t know where Eva lives,” she whispers. “And he lost his driver’s license.” But her already pale face fades a shade more and the fear creeps into her eyes.
Agata and Eva jump up and run to the window.
“It’s Josef and Edgard!” they squeal like they are schoolgirls. Eva slides the window open and they lean out. “What do you troublemakers want?” Eva yells. “It’s girls only! I’m not letting you up!”
“I haf come to sing a song to my-a bee-utiful Agata,” Josef calls to us.
“Oh, this is so romantic,” I pine, clutching my hand over my heart. I go to the window and peer down. Edgard stands back, with his hands in his pockets. He looks at us like we are crazy and drunk, and we are, a little bit of both, on this night of all women. He, perhaps, is here only to provide Josef with courage. Josef wears a suit and tie and has his hair smoothed down with pomade.
I retreat from the window to get my camera and take several photographs as he croons a Czechoslovakian love song to Agata. She listens with tears in her eyes until the song ends, then makes her way downstairs to the sidewalk in front of Eva’s apartment, to where Josef waits for her. She slaps her hands on both his cheeks and gives Josef a youthful, tongue-laden kiss. I take a picture of this, too.
But then all of a sudden, I feel light-headed. I sink back from the window and set down my camera. With all the excitement, it is easy for me to make my way to the bathroom without anyone noticing that I am falling apart.
Thirty minutes later, the doorbell rings.
Nadia again gets that terrified look, thinking that perhaps it is her husband. But I know the doorbell is not for her the instant I see the troublemaking grin on Eva’s face.
“I’ll get it!” she calls out.
No, no, please, no.
I jump up after Eva and leap over the coffee table to get in front of her. I cannot see him. I cannot go through another good-bye.
“Eva, please, no, I can’t. Please, no, you’ve got to make him go away.” My words rush out and I push Eva out of the way and block the door.
“What’s gotten into you?” She tries to push me out of the way, but with my adrenaline rushing the way it is, there is no way she can move me.
“No, Eva. I can’t. I cannot see him.”
“It’s not Ike,” she tells me coolly.
“Right.” I know her. It is exactly the sort of thing she would do.
“It’s not, Tami. I promised you that I’d butt out and I did. So if you’ll just move your ass and let me open the door, you’ll see.”
I cross my arms and plant myself. Nadia rises from the couch and comes closer, ready to offer her assistance if I need it. Agata goes to the window and looks out.
“Vat-a ze hell?” she asks in confusion.
“It’s for Tami,” Eva says in exasperation and goes to the window to whisper in her ear. As she does, Agata’s face turns from confused to buoyant with excitement.
“Ah.” She gives me a reassuring look. “It ees all right, Tami. It ees not your boyfriend.”
He’s not my boyfriend.
“You’re sure?”
She nods. “This ees some-a-thing to a-make you laff.”
The doorbell rings again.
“Be right there!” Eva calls. And then she snarls at me, “Move!”
Against my better judgment, I do.
“Go back and sit on the sofa,” she orders. “Everybody, have a seat and close your eyes.”
With my eyes closed, the beauty of the Arabic belly-dancing music that floods the room is overpowering. I am lulled into the enchanted world of the Middle East until Eva calls, “Open your eyes.”
I do, and am confused to find a woman wearing a full chador standing…no, make that swaying…before us, with a big radio at her feet. Nadia looks as confused as I feel. Agata and Eva laugh at us. My eyes shift back to the woman and I watch as she weaves around in a circle and, with her back to us, waves one arm in the air in a gesture I have never seen before from a woman in a chador.
Women in chadors do not make sensual moves.
Oh, my God.
Eva has hired a stripper.
The instant I realize what is going on, the music changes to an erotic Arab dance-club number and the stripper starts unbundling herself from the chador. She wears high heels and a red garter, which we are able to glimpse as she attempts, gamely but not very gracefully, to extricate herself from the cumbersome chador.
Eva and Agata begin to yell, “Take it off! Take it all off!”
“Stop!” I jump to the radio and fiddle with it until I find the off button to the tape deck. The stripper stops and waits for direction from Eva.
“What’s wrong?” Eva asks me. “It’s just a joke.”
“Please.” I hold up my hands. I may be tipsy, but I am not so tipsy as to allow this. “I know this is all for fun, but it is a very serious offense to my religion.”
“I thought you weren’t religious,” Eva protests. “I wouldn’t have done it if I thought it would offend you.”
“It’s okay,” I assure her. “I’m not offended. But really, it cannot continue.”
Eva sighs. “I booked her when you were still marrying Haroun. I thought, you know, she could teach you a few things for your honeymoon.”
“You really think I’d do a striptease with a chador?”
She shrugs. “Who knows? You’d kind of think that’s part of their attraction, you know? Like tearing the wrapping paper off a Christmas present or something.”
“That’s a very interesting perspective, Eva,” I say, “but I just don’t think that’s the case.”
“Really?” she asks in her cute little Eva-oops way.
“Really,” I say back, mimicking her.
“Sorry, Janie,” she says with a sigh. “I guess you can go.”
&nbs
p; The stripper raises her eyebrows at me like I am the one who has offended her. I give her an apologetic smile. I am not about to judge her morals. If I’ve learned nothing else in my time here, I’ve learned this: In America, sex is everywhere and sex is good. For everyone but me, anyway.
Eva opens the door for her stripper friend.
“Excuse me, miss?” Agata suddenly calls to her.
Janie the Stripper turns back.
“Do you-a know how to do zat tvirl-arounda-ze-pole thing?” Agata asks. “You know, pole dancing?”
“Of course,” Janie says easily.
“Yes! Great idea!” Eva decides, and turns to me. “Can Janie give us pole-dancing lessons?”
“Please?” Agata pleads.
I hold up both hands in surrender. “That’s fine with me. You all go right on ahead. Only, please take off the chador. I’ll just get myself another drink.”
While I pour myself another Cosmopolitan, Eva pulls a mop and broom and vacuum cleaner hose attachment from her closet. Nadia and I hold hands on the couch as we watch the less inhibited members of our party learn some new moves. Eva struts her stuff with a finesse that makes me suspect she’s done this before, but it is Agata I watch. She is clumsy and not at all graceful. The walk-arounds and deep bends look silly coming from a short, pudgy woman my grandmother’s age. But her self-confidence is irresistibly sexy.
It is time for presents. Agata places a chair in the center of the living room and instructs me to sit in it to open my gifts. I pretend to be embarrassed by the rubbing oil that makes one’s skin tingle in sensitive areas. I pretend to be amazed by the edible underwear. But in reality, since I know they will be shoved into a drawer, forever unused, they do not embarrass me at all.
And then it’s time to open Eva’s gift to me. I have no idea what it is when I first open the small, square box, so I look to her for an explanation.
“It’s a vibrator,” she informs me. “A bunny vibrator like from Sex and the City.”
“Sex and the City?”
“You know, it was only the most popular show in America for women under forty.”
“I’m afraid we just watch the Persian news from Los Angeles in my house.”
Eva crudely demonstrates through her clothes how it is to be positioned and the facial expressions and sounds one is likely to generate while using it.
“They do this on the television show?” I ask incredulously, covering my mouth with my hands and laughing in embarrassed shock. “Can we move on to Nadia’s presents, please?”
I get up from the chair of honor and help Nadia settle into it. I bring her gifts over, and Eva watches with feigned interest from the couch as Agata unwraps them for Nadia. Knowing money is tight in her home, we have supplied her with receiving blankets, diapers, a portable play crib, bottles, and bibs, as well as clothing to last until her daughter is eighteen months old. We have even picked out some after-baby new clothing for her, so she can stop wearing that horrid husband’s old T-shirts. I can tell from Nadia’s expression that it has been a long time since she’s been treated so nicely.
“I don’t know how I can ever thank you all enough,” she says through tears. She cannot wipe them because her one good hand is holding baby clothing. Agata brings over a cloth napkin to wipe Nadia’s face.
“We love you,” I tell her, and pat her knee. “We wish there was more that we could do for you.”
Nadia smiles so bravely for us.
“You forgot about my sister’s card,” I remind her, and jump to bring over her purse.
“Will you open it for me?” she asks. “I will have trouble doing it with my one hand.”
“Of course,” I agree gently.
I slit the envelope open and carefully pull out the card. I gasp when I see what is inside.
“What’s wrong?” Nadia asks. I look up at her.
“There’s, ah, quite a bit of money,” I say with a nervous laugh.
“How much?” Eva demands to know.
“A lot.”
“It must be a mistake,” Nadia says.
“Read the note,” Agata suggests.
I unfold the pink linen stationery that contains a note in my sister’s handwriting. I take a deep breath and begin reading out loud.
“Where I am from, there’s no such thing as a shelter for battered women.” I clear my throat as I am reminded of yet another use for veils. They help women to hide their bruises. They enable men to hurt their wives.
“In Iran, there’s no such thing as a second chance. You make your choices, limited though they are, and you live with the consequences forever. I don’t know what it’s like in Russia where you are from, but here, it’s different. Here in America, you get to reinvent yourself as many times as you need to.”
I pause and look up at Nadia. She sits like a statue and I cannot tell what she thinks of Maryam’s note. Agata sits on the floor next to Nadia with her hands clasped so tightly that her knuckles are white. Eva makes big eyes at me and bites her bottom lip. I try to keep my voice steady.
“I have a friend who is driving to the San Francisco Bay area tomorrow. She has room in her car for you, as well as an extra bedroom in her house out there. She says you are welcome to stay with her for as long as you need to. Her name is Nazila; she is a family friend. She will be parked in front of Eva’s apartment tomorrow morning at four-thirty A.M. and she will wait ten minutes for you. You could be across the state line before noon. There would be no way for your husband to find you.”
I again look at Nadia, but she is looking down. At her baby gifts and at her broken arm.
“If you decide to stay, at least please tuck this money away someplace safe where he can’t get his hands on it, so it will be there for you when you really need it. With great affection, Maryam.”
There is a stunned silence when I finish reading. I let out all my breath and reach to hand the note to Nadia so she can read it for herself.
“She’s giving you a thousand dollars,” I tell her.
Her eyes immediately well with tears.
“A thousand dollars?” she whispers. “Why would she do this?”
“I will never say another bad word about your sister for as long as I live,” Eva declares.
I swallow hard as suddenly I am flooded with memories of my sister and me in Iran that first year after we were back from America. She’d hold me in her lap and sing to me as we watched in the fading twilight as the military tanks rolled past our house. Being so young, I did not understand why I was forbidden from playing outside.
Our world went from blue skies to gray in the span of one year, as we came back to a homeland that seemed to hate us. We watched helplessly as our parents fell into terrible depressions that to this day have not really lifted. Maryam was the one who pushed the clouds away for me the best she could, with her gentle words and constant touches and her promises of a brighter future when we would all get back to America one day, when we would all be happy together once more.
“My sister cares about you, Nadia,” I say with conviction. “She wants to do more than wipe away your tears. In Iran, so often that is all we can do. And it is not enough.”
“Nadia, dear.” Agata reaches over to her and squeezes her knee encouragingly. “I hope you go.”
I brace myself. I think my heart will break all over again if Nadia does not take this chance to start a new life for herself and her baby girl.
“All I’ve been thinking about is how I can keep my daughter safe,” she whispers. “I’d hoped that if I love her enough and kiss her enough, maybe I could somehow protect her from the ugliness of my marriage.”
She shakes her head and sounds defeated.
“You aren’t even going to be able to hold her, with that broken arm,” Eva says. “There’s no way you can protect her from him.”
“I know,” Nadia whispers.
“And do you really want her growing up in a world where all she knows is fear?” I ask. “That’s what’ll happen if you
stay. She won’t know what it feels like to be safe for even one day.”
Nadia takes a deep breath. She looks at me, only at me. “Danny asked me to stay after class the other day.”
My heart jumps. I hope his news to her was good.
“He told me that no one will take my baby away from me if I leave my husband.” I reach and squeeze her knee. This is good news. “He told me my husband could go to jail for how he has hurt me. He told me I am perfectly legal to stay here without him. I have my green card and there are protections for me.”
Her voice has grown bitter, but also stronger.
“Then there is nothing to hold you back,” I tell her firmly. “You are so strong and you came all this way for a better life. And now you can have one.”
Please, Nadia, take this chance.
Nadia lets out all her breath. The rest of us collectively hold ours. She stares for a long moment at the swarm of presents we have given her.
“These are such beautiful gifts,” she murmurs. She sounds dreamy, far away.
I want to take her by the shoulders and shake her. Come back to this moment. This is the moment that counts.
“Do you think there will be room in the car for them?” She looks at each of us in turn and smiles back at us as we nod that yes, of course there will be room in the car for her baby things.
“Good,” she says. “Because I love them all so much. I love you all so much.”
“Yay, Nadia!” I yell, and jump up from the couch.
Eva and Agata follow my lead, and soon enough we have surrounded Nadia. We jump and cheer and clap and do a little dance around her chair.
“I wish I could celebrate like you,” she tells us, laughing and holding out her broken arm.
“You will someday, because that arm’s going to heal just fine,” I bend down and remind her quietly. “And someday, Nadia, your heart will not be so sad, either.”
She gives me a small smile. “I hope you’re right about that.”
“I know I am,” I say with a confidence I do not truly feel. “Given enough time and distance, the heart will always heal.”
I want so badly for this to be true. For her, for me. For my mother, for all women.
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